


take a deep breath (and get real high)

by bloodscout



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Bisexual Character, Drugs, Fluff and Humor, Friendship, Gen, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Lesbian Character of Color, Lesbian Sasha James, References to 2016 British Politics, Season/Series 01, mlm/wlw solidarity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:28:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24656824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodscout/pseuds/bloodscout
Summary: Sasha threw her head back, looking at the ceiling. This was the stupidest decision she had ever made, no contest. But Tim’s voice kept playing in the back of her head. When did we get so responsible? For Sasha, the answer was probably at eleven years old, when she first started thinking about her life in terms of educational experience and academic transcripts and career paths.Fuck it.“Why not?” she agreed, tension in her shoulders releasing. “Let’s hotbox Artefact Storage.”
Relationships: Martin Blackwood & Sasha James & Tim Stoker, Sasha James & Tim Stoker
Comments: 15
Kudos: 61
Collections: WLW Writing TMA Women





	take a deep breath (and get real high)

**Author's Note:**

> yes i am having a crisis about being a Blak lesbian in academia. yes i am projecting onto sasha about it. no i will not be taking further questions.  
> title from what’s up by 4 non-blondes which is THE sasha song. i very much intend to die on this hill.

Sasha James was a professional. It was the first adjective on her professional references, followed closely by “thorough” and “independent”. She knew how important it was to maintain that façade, was all to familiar with the reality that for a young Black woman in academia, “professionalism” was synonymous with “having a job”. So Sasha spent hours having her braids done every eight weeks, and continued to follow Institute dress code when every other member of the Archives decided that working in the basement meant that they could just wear threadbare t-shirts and ratty jeans to work. Tim and Martin seemed happy enough with their new roles and the reasonable pay rise that came along with it, but Sasha didn’t want to be an assistant for the rest of her life. She didn’t resent Jon for his promotion, but all the same, she didn’t want him to be her boss forever. She wanted people to know the name “Sasha James” in the same way they knew “Gertrude Robinson”. They didn’t need to understand the exact nature of her work — not everyone was as passionate about the intricacies of library science — but she wanted people to recognise her efforts. Sasha wanted something to show for how hard she worked to get where she was.

But it was tiring. It was fucking exhausting. Sasha was only in her mid thirties, and sometimes she wanted the excuse to let loose. That’s why it was more than idle curiosity that kept her in the break room when Tim was showing off his latest find.

“Tim, put that away!” Martin shrieked as Sasha wandered into the cramped kitchenette.

“Hush, Marto, it’s just Sasha.” Tim gave Sasha a conspiratorial wink, inviting her in on whatever secret was making Martin flap his hands anxiously.

“Where did you even _get_ that? We’re at work!”

Martin dramatically flattened his back against the wall, his hand coming up to rest on his forehead as if he was the leading lady on the cover of a Mills and Boon.Sasha was not entirely surprised when she caught a glimpse of Tim’s cupped palms, holding several neatly rolled joints and a small pouch of green. The silver cigarette case was an unexpected addition, though. Sasha raised her eyebrows, not quite signalling her interest, but not denying it either. She busied herself with making a cup of tea, the kettle still warm.

“I was just running the week’s expenses report up to Elias — why we can’t just email them to him, I don’t know, the man acts like a _relic_ — and he said that Martin had lost his hole punch—”

“I have?”

“And this was just sitting in the stationary closet! Like, not even hidden. Just out in the open. Practically had my name on it.”

Tim was grinning by this point, his tongue pressed impishly between his teeth.

“But it’s _not_ yours!” Martin protested. This was correct, Sasha noted, going by the stylised “J” etched into the case.

Tim pouted, head lolling to the side. “You think I should hand it in, Marto? ‘Hi Elias, found these illegal drugs in the stationary closet. Could help me find the owner?’ Sounds like that would go down great, and absolutely no-one would get fired over it!”

Martin rolled his eyes, but wasn’t ready to back down. “You don’t have to give it back, but I just… I just think you should get rid of it. We’re at work!”

Tim scoffed. “Yeah, I’ll just throw it in the bin, shall I? Do I need to remind you which one of us _lives_ here now?”

Martin was dangerously close to sulking by this point, not as used to Tim’s teasing as Sasha was. Sasha threw her used teabag across the room, landing directly into the bin. Both men turned towards her.

“We can just smoke it.” She said, as if she was suggesting they buy full fat milk next time. “Then it’s gone.”

Tim’s eyes widened, obviously impressed. “Sasha!” he cried. “I like your thinking!”

Martin worried at the chapped skin of his lip. “Wh- Whatever. Just… get it out of here, okay? Before Jon finds out.”

Tim laughed at that, making Martin flinch with the volume. “I forget you didn’t know Jon in research.” he said, deliberately ambiguous.

Martin sputtered, and oh, Sasha _had_ to know this story. But another time. Jon was in his office and wasn’t likely to notice them until he was finished with whatever he did in there, but Sasha still didn't want to be caught gossiping about her boss. A strange line to draw, considering that she was talking about doing drugs in the break room, but she always felt that Jon could hear what they were saying about him.

Tim lifted a case to his nose, and took a deep sniff like he was inspecting an expensive cigar. Sasha never really liked the smell of weed, and had absolutely no idea about how to identify its quality, but Tim seemed to approve.

“We should get through this soon.” Tim whispered conspiratorially. “Don’t want Jerry Madman to curse our hash!”

Sasha chuckled, swatting Tim’s arm lightly. “I’m not crazy about taking drugs home on the Tube, though.”

Tim nodded his agreement, but the turn of his mouth was disappointed. “I’d say come to mine, but my landlord is a real hardass, and he lives just next door. It’s good stuff, but…” he trailed off.

“Not worth getting evicted for, yeah.”

“God,” Tim sighed, snapping the case shut. “When did we get so responsible?”

Martin, who had apparently decided to play lookout for them instead of going back to work, piped up. “I mean, no-one stays here after six except for me. A-, and Jon. When he leaves, I’m the only one in the building.” He stared fixedly at the floor, but a smile was working its way onto his face. “I’m not… I don’t want any, it makes me paranoid, but… Just letting you know.”

Tim was dumbstruck, his jaw all but brushing the floor. Sasha sipped at her tea to hide her smile. She knew there was a reason she liked Martin.

“Artefact Storage doesn’t have cameras.” Sasha said. “The wiring is faulty or something, and there’s all kinds of weird smells in there.”

Tim was practically buzzing with excitement by this point. “Tonight?” he asked, anticipation colouring his voice.

Sasha threw her head back, looking at the ceiling. This was the stupidest decision she had ever made, no contest. But Tim’s voice kept playing in the back of her head. _When did we get so responsible?_ For Sasha, the answer was probably at eleven years old, when she first started thinking about her life in terms of educational experience and academic transcripts and career paths.

Over two decades of doing the right thing. Of being reliable, dependable, level-headed. There had to be a point where you were allowed to just do something unspeakably stupid. If such a point existed, Sasha had reached it when Jon had been given the position of Head Archivist instead of her. Since then, her workmate had been under siege by worms, she had been stalked by a monster that apparently just wanted to be friends, and she had put in frankly ridiculous amounts of unpaid overtime.

Fuck it.

“Yeah. Yeah, let’s do it tonight. Why not?” she agreed, tension in her shoulders releasing. “Let’s hotbox Artefact Storage.”

~~~

To: Tim, Sasha

From: Martin

_I told Jon you guys were working late following up a statement. He’s just left. Good luck. Please don’t do anything stupid!!!_

Since Martin’s run in with Prentiss, Sasha and Tim had both left a bag of spare clothes in the Archives. At the moment, Martin was cycling between whatever he had shoved into his backpack when he left his apartment, along with stuff she and Tim had picked up at charity shops. It was less than ideal, and Sasha didn’t want to find herself living at her workplace, wearing a shirt with a cartoon frog declaring “Everything’s Bigger In Chichester!”. Not being too keen on her best jumper reeking of weed smoke, Sasha changed into a comfortable pair of dungarees before meeting Tim up in Artefact Storage. The lights were never all off in the Institute — some security measure or something, Sasha wasn’t quite sure about the details — but the single fluorescent lighting up each hallway put her more than a little on edge. She thought about how stupid this was for about the hundredth time since she suggested it. She was careful. She was _professional_.

“Sasha!” Tim called in an excitable singsong. “Love the denim. Very butch.” He pulled at a pair of invisible suspenders, then beckoned her into the storage room. “Come on, help me scope out an empty room. One that’s suitably musty, of course.”

Tim grabbed his things, opening the door and making an _after you_ gesture.

“Did you duck to the shops?” Sasha inquired, indicating the large mixing bowl covered in cling film cradled in Tim’s arms.

“Oh, this?” He hefted the bowl. “It’s guacamole. Made it myself, but I didn’t have time to get crisps so either we get takeaway or we eat it with spoons.”

Sasha noted the implication that Tim, not having gone to the shops, had all the ingredients to hand to make a party sized bowl of guacamole. Just when she thought she was starting to understand him.

The requirements for a room were pretty basic; it had to be free of anything super old or flammable, easy to block the door of, and comfortable enough for two thirty-somethings to get high and roll around for a while without being too stiff the next morning. Artefact storage always felt more labyrinthine than any floor plans suggested, but the second door they pushed open revealed a room that was entirely empty, save a large urn.

“Here looks good enough.” Sasha declared. “They wouldn’t keep anything real bad this close to the entrance.”

Tim scoffed, obviously disagreeing with Sasha’s assessment about the relative safety. To be fair, Sasha didn’t really believe it either, but she was supposed to be relaxing. There was plenty of time to be scared shitless when she was being paid for it.

They wasted no time preparing the room. Tim lugged in couch cushions he had “liberated” from the Artefact Storage break room — “Things go walkabout around here all the time, Sash. They won’t question it.” — and Sasha stuffed a towel under the door until she couldn’t feel the draft from the hallway. 

“There’s loose stuff, right, Tim?” Sasha asked. There was probably a word for it other than “loose stuff”, but Tim didn’t seem like the type to judge. And if he was, she could just shove him into the urn until he apologised.

Tim nodded, pulling even more snacks from his satchel. “Don’t have a pipe for it though.” He grinned wide, incisors visible at the corners of his lips. “Should’ve snagged one of Jon’s statements and rolled it in that.”

Giggling, Sasha slapped him lightly on the shoulder. Then her eyes caught on an apple Tim had deposited on the floor, and she snatched it up.

“Surely you aren’t hungry already?” Tim questioned.

“No,” she muttered, digging through her bag until she found an old biro. “Aha!” She hoisted the pen victoriously.

For the second time that day, Tim was visibly impressed. Sasha unscrewed the biro with her teeth, and cored two tunnels into the fruit with surprisingly minimal mess. As a finishing touch, she shoved the hollow tube of the pen back in, and held out the transformed apple.

Tim gave a round of applause. “Very nice!”

The praise warmed her, even if it was because of her aptitude in improvising drug paraphernalia.

“Kids used to smoke behind the library where I first interned.” She told him, by way of explanation.

As the one with more practical experience, Tim packed the makeshift pipe and lit it, probably with a lighter he stole from Jon’s ever-growing collection. Sasha was under the impression that working in an archive required a certain level of personal organisation, but apparently Jon hadn’t got that memo. They were always finding pens or lighters or mugs he had put down and forgotten about.

Tim handed Sasha the pipe, and she prided herself on suppressing a cough when she inhaled the thick smoke. It didn’t take long for her to start feeling floaty and calm, swaying with the beating of her heart.

“He’s an alright boss.” she said, handing the pipe back to Tim. Her tongue felt heavier than usual.

“Elias?” Tim asked, disbelieving, then put his lips to the pen.

Sasha’s snort of laughter was undignified, which pulled her smile even wider. “No, Jon.”

Tim hummed. “Pretty stressed out, though.”

That was true. Sasha hadn’t really known Jon before the Archives, but she couldn’t imagine someone could be that tightly wound and willingly associate with Tim.

“What was he like? In Research?”

Tim blew a stream of smoke directly in her face, which she batted away, and snatched the pipe from him in retribution. She felt loose and not quite there, like an image on a staticky television fading in and out of visibility.

Exhaling clean air, Tim flopped down onto the cushions. “Not too different. Still prickly, but also a champion wheelie chair racer. Could put away a beer like you wouldn’t believe. Like, seriously, Sash, how can he fit that much liquid in him, he’s so _small_ , it just doesn’t seem possible! And he never needed to piss! Whenever I drink, you know me, I’m always all, ‘I need to pee, Sasha’ and ‘Where’s the toilet, Sasha’, but Jon just never did! He’s like…” Tim’s hands flailed, grasping for where his anecdote was going. Then, unable to find his train of thought, he visibly rewound to his original point. “Everyone called him sweetheart in Research.”

“No they didn’t.” Sasha countered, but she didn’t feel as confident as she usually would. She didn’t know this Jon, the one that played office games and went out for after work drinks.

Tim’s tongue peeked out, pressing at his lip as he thought. “Well, no. But he didn’t stop me when I did.”

For some reason, that sent Sasha into a fit of giggles that had her clutching at her chest. The denim felt lovely under her fingers.

“Did you…” she asked, waggling her eyebrows suggestively.

This time, it was Tim’s turn to slap her, but Sasha deftly rolled away. “Who do you think I am!” The pipe exhausted, Tim placed a joint between his lips, continuing to berate her in his tone of faux-offence. “I don’t sleep with just anyone, you know. Honestly, the biphobia in the house tonight!”

Sasha rolled her eyes, taking a spoonful of guacamole. It was surprisingly good, especially being of mostly unknown origins. “I do apologise, Timothy. I’ll do my penance to Saint George tomorrow.”

Tim’s eyes went unfocused, staring at a point just beyond the ceiling. “Good-looking, though. Under the tweed.”

Sasha gave it some thought. She couldn’t exactly picture Jon at the moment, other than that he was vaguely man-shaped. “Eh.” she decided.

The picture of an affronted Regency dame, Tim pushed himself up again, his hand dramatically clutching his chest. “Here I was thinking we were supposed to be on the same _side_ , Sasha. Where is this fabled lesbian/bisexual solidarity, huh?”

“Solidarity isn’t validating your bad taste in men.” Sasha said primly, plunging the spoon back into the guacamole. “Solidarity is smoking you out in my old office.”

Tim opened a packet of biscuits he had also liberated from the Artefact Storage break room. He then proceeded to scoop guacamole with a custard cream, a truly cursed action that left Sasha with no choice other than to tackle him to the ground.

~~~

At some point Tim had turned on some music, and now bubblegum pop was playing from the tinny speaker of his phone. Sasha knew he was a good dancer, had watched him dominate the dance floor of various Soho bars when he had dragged her and Martin out for “Gay-chives bonding. Arch-gays. Ar-gay-ves… Whatever, we’re all new, we’re all gays, and we’re all going dancing.” At that point, though, Sasha was highly skeptical that Tim’s off-beat swaying and wildly waving arms qualified as dancing.

“And everybody is so mad about Jezza sitting on the floor of a train, like it’s a crime to sit on the floor? I’m sitting on the floor right now, Tim, and you’re not arresting me.” Sasha pointed an accusatory finger at her friend. “You’re not arresting me, right, Tim? For the crime of sitting?"

“Correct. I am not.” Tim agreed, still swaying. His lips were painted with a garish neon pink lipstick, though Sasha couldn’t remember the story behind why that was.

“And like, they had to show security footage over it? Who fucking cares? Trains are so busy, Tim, I don’t know if you’ve been on a train before, but they’re so fucking busy all the time and it’s like, I just want to be off this train! But they’re recording me, and if I sit down, maybe Owen fucking Jones will write an article about me, but if I ride a bike instead of a train, suddenly I’m Chairman bloody Mao, and… and, and you know what, Tim? You know what’s illegal, Tim?”

Tim pulled Sasha up to a standing position and grasped Sasha’s chin between his thumb and his forefinger, catching her gaze. “Weed.” he said, tone gravely serious.“Weed is illegal.”

“No. Well, yes. But what’s really illegal is fucking a pig, Tim. That’s really bloody illegal.”

Tim nodded sagely. “Correct.”

“And where’s the CCTV of _that_ , huh? I mean, I don’t want it. If I never had to see David Cameron’s weird little face again, it would be too soon, but Tim!” Now it was Sasha’s turn to hold Tim’s face, sandwiching it between her hands so his cheeks squished together comically. “I hate every single Tory, Tim. Every last rotten one of them.”

“Fuck Tories!” Tim declared, his voice distorted by the shape of his cheeks.

“Fuck the Tories!” Sasha chorused, releasing Tim’s face to throw her fist in the air.

With a gasp, Tim dove down to grab his phone, frantically scrolling through his songs to find something. Sasha’s eyes lit up when she heard the familiar pipes.

“Tim!” she cried, delight plain in her voice.

Tim hauled himself up and grabbed her hands. “C’mon.” he beckoned. “Time to dance.”

Sasha spun with him, dizzy with righteous anger and well-earned joy and weed, shouting “Ding-dong, the witch is dead!” with possibly her best friend in the world. She urged Tim to go faster, and let out an elated whoop, a veritable barbaric yawp, as they toppled onto the floor together.

~~~

“How did you get in here?” Sasha asked, slipping a whirring tape recorder from underneath one of the cushions. She waved it at Tim. “Tim, look.”

Tim’s eyes narrowed, and he crawled towards the little black box. “Little narc!” he cried, jamming the stop button. The recorder dutifully switched off. “Jon’s trying to catch us out, Sash. He knows what we’re up to!” he whispered conspiratorially.

For some reason, Sasha started petting the tape recorder like a small cat. “How would he know to leave a tape recorder in here, though?” She was mostly humouring Tim, didn’t actually believe that Jon was spying on them, but something niggled at her nonetheless. An unshakable feeling of being watched.

“How should I know!” Tim stage whispered. He was going to destroy his voice if he kept doing that. “ _He’s_ the spooky one!” Tim dragged a hand down his face. “God, Sash, we’re going to get so fired for this. Like, double fired. They’ll fire us, then hire us just so we can get fired again. Why did I let you talk me—”

Tim was interrupted by the click of the tape recorder turning back on.

“Did you…?” he asked, gaze zeroing in on the machine.

“No!”

“Then how…?”

Sasha put the tape recorder on the floor, as if it might explode if she touched it any longer. “I don’t know, they do that sometimes. Old wiring, probably. It’s _nothing_ , Tim.” She was trying to calm Tim down, yes, but she was also trying to quiet the clamour of her own anxious thoughts. “Leave it for now. We’ll just throw out the tape in the morning.”

“Okay.” Tim conceded. He flipped onto his back, crossing his arms over his chest like the relief on a sarcophagus. “After all that stress, I think we better light up again.”

Sasha nodded, pulling the last joint from the case. “Who do you think these belonged to, anyway?” she asked on an exhale.

“Dunno. ‘J’ someone. Jenna. Julian. J… James. Sasha James!” Tim chuckled, and pinched the joint from her. “Shotgun?”

“Gross, no.”

Tim blew smoke on her face again.

“Your loss.”

Weightless once more, Sasha splayed herself across the cool concrete of the floor. Her eyes were drawn to the urn in the corner, the hand-painted lines slightly crooked in places. They expanded out beyond the confines of the vase, connecting to places and people she would never know. It seemed sad, somehow.

Tim made a questioning sort of noise, pulling her out of her thoughts. She focused back in on her hands, fingers spread out in the air. It was far too easy to lose herself in the patterns of things in Artefact Storage.

“Just. In tune with things.” she told him. “I can _feel_ it, you know.”

Tim nodded, as if she was making perfect sense. Maybe she was. She should write a paper on this later. Her fingers found Tim’s, gripping them loosely.

“I wish the ghosts could get high with us.” Tim whispered, surprisingly sincere.

Sasha gave his hands a light squeeze. The joint was almost gone, and she scrubbed the remnants out in the guacamole bowl.

Tim let out a long exhale, and Sasha felt it flow into her. “When I’m a ghost, we won’t be able to smoke together ever again.”

“Or drink.” Sasha added.

“Or drink.” Tim agreed.

There was silence then, and all Sasha wanted to do was hold Tim close, hold him and Martin and Jon until they all melded together into one. Maybe if they were together, nothing would happen to them. If she could just make herself large enough to cover them all completely, maybe it would all be okay. She didn’t think it was just the drugs making her paranoid. There was something wrong with this place, and she wished desperately that she knew how to fix it.

For now, though, she would do what she did best. She would do the practical thing.

“C’mon,” she beckoned, nudging Tim into a sitting position. “We can’t sleep here. Let’s go downstairs.”

They packed up what little detritus they had created. Sasha pushed the cushions up against the wall, deeming this somehow less suspicious, while Tim shook the towel out as if that would dissipate that smell of weed smoke in the windowless room. Sasha led the way out with her phone thrust ahead of herself, her fingers too clumsy to turn the proper torch on. Like children awake on Christmas Eve, they tiptoed down the corridors and staircases until they found themselves in the familiar, musty air of the Archives. The door to Martin’s erstwhile living quarters was slightly ajar, a small glow of light filtering through the crack. Her finger to her lips, Sasha pushed it open, revealing a sleeping Martin burrowed into the blankets. Two pillows lay on the floor next to him, along with another blanket and two mugs of water.

Without really registering the motion, Sasha found that the tape recorder was at her lips. “Statement of Sasha James and Timothy Stoker, regarding our baby boy—” 

“Sash, he’s 28!” Tim whisper-shouted, pulling the tape recorder to his mouth as he spoke. 

“Exactly! He’s a baby.” she declared, pulling out the last syllable. Tim tried to argue, but Sasha clamped a hand over his mouth, earning a lick to her palm. “Eugh, gross. Now shush, or you’ll wake him. Statement begins.”

As she tried to find words, she loosened her grip on Tim’s mouth, and he took the opportunity to speak. “Well? Get on it with it.”

Sasha cleared her throat. “Dear Martin, thank you for the pillows and the water. You are too kind and we appreciate you very much.”

Tim nodded. “Lots of love, Mum and Dad.”

Sasha rolled her eyes, but didn’t protest. Tim pressed a little kiss on Martin’s forehead, which threatened to push her into a final fit of giggles. Sasha tugged him away, and they curled under the shared blanket, hands still clasped together. If Sasha closed her eyes and thought really, really hard, she could picture them all — Tim, Martin, Jon, and herself —like four tiny points of light shining through the streets of London. She switched the tape recorder off, and it stayed off.

~~~

When Martin woke up the next morning, it was to find a smudged pink lipstick mark on his cheek and his two friends curled together at the foot of his camp bed. Sasha snored softly, some of her braids lying across Tim’s face. Clutched to her chest was a tape recorder, the wheel almost completely full with whatever they had been talking about last night.

With an indulgent smile, Martin extricated the recorder from Sasha’s grasp and tucked the blanket back over them both. He removed the tape and and slipped it into his backpack. They’d have time to listen to it together later.

**Author's Note:**

> wheelie chair headcanon stolen from [office supplies](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23816086)  
> thanks for reading! love and support women in yr fanworks. follow me on tumblr at [sansculotted](sansculotted.tumblr.com)


End file.
